Maybe Space Isn't So Bad
by MarvelNerd01
Summary: Tony is alone and dying, laden with guilt and lost hopes. As he stares out over the vast expanse of space, he can't help but dream... Ironstrange


**Tony Stark; visionary, genius, American patriot. Even from an early age, the son of legendary weapons developer Howard Stark quickly stole the spotlight with his brilliant and unique mind. At age four, he built his first circuit board.**

 **At age six, his first engine. And at 17, he graduated summa cum laude from MIT. Then, the passing of a titan. Howard Stark's lifelong friend and ally, Obadiah Stane, steps in to help fill the gap left by the legendary founder, until, at age 21, the prodigal son returns and is anointed the new CEO of Stark Industries.**

 **With the keys to the kingdom, Tony ushers in a new era for his father's legacy, creating smarter weapons, advanced robotics, satellite targeting.**

 **Today, Tony Stark has changed the face of the weapons industry by ensuring freedom and protecting America and her interests around the globe.**

Tony scoffs, kicking his foot against the rough metal of the windowsill.

 _Ensuring freedom and protecting America_. He let his head fall back even more, his greasy, matted hair making an echoing "thud" on the thin metal wall behind him.

Two weeks he had been on this dreadful ship. Two weeks of a knawing rawness in his stomach. Two weeks of burning, sandpaper throat. He now knows nothing has ever been as bad as this.

Afganistan had been awful. Given him irreversible PTSD, but there was something inexplicably different about this time. Yinsen had told him with his dying **breath**

"Don't waste your life," and to hell, if he didn't give it a goddamn try.

No, this was nothing like Afganistan, with the unforgiving desert blaze sending streams of sweat down his back with water he couldn't spare. He had had no one, not a soul who cared about him or what happened. He would have been a tabloid frenzy for a week, and some of his loyal fans would mourn for a while longer, but he was always a burden on Rhodie anyway, and Pepper, well she could always find another job. With her dazzling crystal eyes and wistful red hair, she would have no trouble finding another job, even if she had said she hated job hunting.

Now look at him, the great Tony Stark sitting on a dully painful metal grate in the middle of space. He would have laughed at his misfortune. His never-ending nightmares about the dark abyss of space. When the portal would suck every ounce of life from him while the white in his eyes drifted away and his lungs caved in on themselves. He supposed he got what was coming to him, leading a life of destruction in his wake. Whether it be Sokovia or all the weapons he sold, and now…

He fought the shudder that pounded in his veins by stiffening like a wooden board. He tried to clench his fist, but it was too weak to grip, his bones unmoving as if an elastic band held them back.

He hated his father. For giving him Stark industries. For allowing him to be rich enough to create the Iron man suit.

He hated that too, the suit. He hated it's obnoxious red and flashy gold. He drooped his head on the wall slightly enough so the shredded helmet was in his view. It was a miserable thing, that only brought him pain and suffering.

He hated the world, and whatever controlled it. Frankly, he didn't care if it was a god, or math, or the all-consuming fate of randomness. He hated Steve Rogers, for being so god damn righteous that he made Tony drag a charming, naive, chestnut-haired boy into a battle, who he wished he never met.

He hated his captors in Afganistan for being stupid enough to let him live. He hated Rhodie, for acting so stubborn that he had wedged himself in as a friend. He hated that he ever got an assistant. A wonderful, beautiful assistant that he wished he hadn't fallen in love with.

He hated that he thought he was good enough to deserve Pepper, Rhodie, and Peter Parker. He should have known he was a piece of human filth that deserved nothing more than a little too much alcohol and a slip of the steering wheel.

Why did he ever give up his playboy, meaningless, useless life thinking he deserved people that cared about him.

He glances over slightly to view the vast openness of space. An hour ago, his chest would have contracted and the vines clawing at his lungs would make him double over and dry heave, because he had nothing left to vomit, out of panic. Now though, when he gazes over the vast expanse of both _everything_ and _nothing,_ a whispy numbness passes through his frail form and he can breathe a little easier.

Accepting death makes it easier to die, he supposed.

He hated _everything_.

There were less than twelve hours of oxygen left, and he couldn't care less. It wasn't even a stretch to say he was anxious for it to come. The only hope he had left to hold was the promise of death.

He closed his eyes to dull the ever-growing pounding in his temple and focused on the things he loved.

He didn't know if Pepper had survived, so he avoided thinking about that altogether. Maybe, now that he was gone, she would finally find someone that deserved her. Someone kind, and loving, and most importantly, someone who wasn't getting shot every weekend.

Peter Parker, the genius protege that reminded him so bitterly of himself he had feared for Peter's future.

Not that he had one anymore.

He had looked at Tony with rose-tinted glasses, never willing or accepting his flaws. And when Tony had barely been able to hold it together after the fight, dropping Peter off at his apartment in Queens, his small voice in Tony's head acted like a barrier, veering his hand away from the whiskey bottle.

And when Tony had his first panic attack in months because he just _couldn't_ call the damn flip phone, Peter had been there, a steady grip on his arm and babbles of encouragement and praise.

The corner of his dry lips turned up.

And then there had been the unexpected, unanticipated center of this godforsaken outer space excursion, Dr. Stephan Strange. He had been rude, and arrogant, and cocky. The absolute worst kind of person.

So naturally, Tony had fallen for him.

He absently wondered if, in the 14,000,605 possibilities, the one where they won, Stephan had loved him back. It was unlikely and unfair for him to think of such a thing, but he was dying, so he was going to dream about whatever he damn well pleased.

Strange had gone from never being willing to sacrifice the stone, to "spare his life and I will give you the stone," in under three hours.

He laughed suddenly out loud like a lunatic at the irony. The irony that maybe if Strange had let him die, half the universe would still be alive.

It was a waste anyway, he was dying now. Half the universe died because of him, what would his father say.

Tony could feel his mind drifting away, floating through the thick glass to join whatever might be out there. He never was a religious man, though his mother had tried to suede him many times.

His eyes were caked with grime, but he managed to open them slightly if only to die seeing the stars he had spent so much time fearing.

He tried to look beyond the balls of gas. Beyond the black vastness and distant purple nebula. Maybe if he looked close enough, he would see what Stephan had really seen, and what Peter had chosen to see.

Truthfully he was glad Peter and Stephan had died a quick death. Anything to prevent them from feeling the crushing feeling of isolation and suffocation.

He gently fluttered his eyes shut again, and pictured them here with him. If he thought hard enough, he could feel Stephans arm around his shoulders, and Peters firm grip on his hand. The sorcerer would be looking at him fondly but trying his best to obey his stoic nature and avoid expressing too much emotion.

Peter would be smiling a dazzling grin, sunlight bright enough that even in his mind the thought of it warmed him up a little.

"We are here for you, Tony," The Stephan in his head said encouragingly, his dark hair curled neatly on his forehead. His weakened mind pictured him in a simple grey t-shirt and jeans. Fascinating.

"Just let go Mr. Stark. It will all be over soon." Peter smiled. He had a Mid Town shirt and jeans on as well.

Tony didn't bother trying to open his eyes again. He shakily reached forward to place a frail, calloused hand on the top of the helmet. It was his legacy, after all. He still imagined them sitting with him as he let go.

He swallowed nothing, his throat burning slightly at its dryness. His voice was frail, he hadn't spoken in weeks, but in his mind, he reached out to the two people he loved and said;

"I'm sorry." It was raspy, and foreign to his ears but the tone wasn't of guilt or anguish. He had lost all of those things in the constant waves of panic attacks and they had been sucked out into space along with everything else in his mind.

Stephan just pulled him closer, forgiving solidarity in his expression, and kissed him gently on the head. With one last internal glance at them both, he finally let go of his mind and grasped the strong hand of death, willing and ready to depart.


End file.
